The Wedding: A Day in the Life of Harry Potter
by Inherent Contradictions
Summary: Sneaky, smirking Slytherins, and wedding-crazed Weasleys. Is this a match made in heaven or in hell?
1. Omens

Sneaky, smirking Slytherins, and wedding-crazed Weasleys.  Is this a match made in heaven or in hell?

Clearly, I do not own Harry Potter.  If I did, you would be paying to read this, I would have a lot of money as a result, and then I'd stop writing just to annoy you.

I'm evil like that.

This story includes SLASH.  If you do not want to read it, please leave.  Otherwise, come in, stay a while, and don't forget to review when you're done.

Ginny was glowing.  It was so palpable, not even Harry's sour mood could read misery into her elated expression.

Not that he didn't try.

"So, Gin, how is the git?"

"Harry!"  Ginny didn't falter.  "It's so great to finally see you!  I was hoping you'd arrive early – have you seen Ron and Hermione?"

Harry's face took on a disgruntled cast.

"Umm . . . I think they're in the kitchen?  Apparently they're busy."

Ginny's brow furrowed for a second, and her gaze shifted slightly to consider the firmly closed door to the aforementioned kitchen.  Her face cleared, the puzzlement disappearing, as she heard a faint giggle emanating from within, followed by a gasp.  She directed a grin – that appeared to be verging on malicious – at her traumatised guest.

"Ah."

She made no attempt to move.

A moan shattered the slightly uncomfortable silence.

Harry's eyebrow quirked upwards.

Ginny giggled.  She was still glowing.

"Maybe we should go elsewhere?"  Harry suggested.

Ginny nodded, reached for his hand, and began to lead her friend and the man she considered another brother into the living area, away from the disturbing noises.  They finally settled, he on a rather worn brown velvet armchair that was covered with cat fur, she on the couch, next to Mrs Weasley's clicking knitting needles.

"So, Gin, you didn't answer my question."

"You mean the one in which you referred to the man I love as a git?"

Harry blanched slightly at Ginny's rather annoyed tone as she continued.

"But thank you for asking, anyway, and Draco is well.  In fact, it was he who was hoping you would arrive early – he has something he needs you for."

Harry groaned.

Harry should have guessed it was a bad omen when he had woken up that morning to find the sun shining so brightly.  Others might have seen it as a good thing, but Harry really should have known better.  After all, nothing in the world should be trusted.

The weather perhaps least of all.

And it the sun was still shining, and warmth was soaking deep into his pores.

It might have been a pleasant omen, but by now Harry knew not to be so simplistic.  Clearly he would get heatstroke, collapse at the altar of Ginny's wedding (thereby cementing the popular, if completely inaccurate, theory abounding in the wizarding world that he was madly in love with Gin and devastated by her choice in bridegroom) and die.

Harry was almost certain Trelawny would consider this moment of realization his finest hour.

Clearly he would die young, and horribly.

Probably that very day.

Harry expelled a laboured breath, maintaining clam and control in the face of adversity, and knocked on the door in front of him.

It opened, after an extended pause, to the smirking face of Draco Malfoy, urbane as ever, even on the morning of his wedding.

"Potter."

"Malfoy."

Harry brushed past the other man, strode to the centre of the room that had been assigned to him – Percy's old room, he noted absently – and stood, waiting.

There was silence.  Draco was standing, still holding the door open, looking directly at his distinctly annoyed visitor.

"Well?"

"Well, what, Potter?"

"Well, what did you want to see me about?"

"Ah, that."  Draco gave a slight involuntary grin, then smoothed his expression into its rather more customary smirk.  "It appears that we have a problem.  Given that the rest of the 'family'," there appeared to be a bad taste lingering in Malfoy's mouth, if his sour demeanour was any indication, "is otherwise occupied, I thought it could be your responsibility."

Draco then essayed an innocent smile.  To Harry, it appeared more like the sort of expression Crookshanks might have made if he ever came face-to-face with Peter Pettigrew in his rat form.

Given Draco's similarity at this point in time to the most terrifying cat Harrry had ever encountered, he felt amply justified in regarding Draco with deep suspicion.

"What sort of responsibility are we talking about here, Malfoy?"

"Nothing too arduous, Potter."  Draco smiled happily, turning to the mirror, where he meticulously adjusted the cuffs of his black silk dress robes.  The silver thread that they were shot through with sparkled, apparently as a result of a good mood, if the long talk he had once given to Harry about the properties of the cloth he intended to be married in was any indication.

Harry supposed it was rather romantic – if one could use such a word about Malfoy – to choose to be married in clothing that made it patently obvious just exactly how happy you were about the union.

It was also rather disturbing that he could actually remember the conversation, which, if his memory was correct, had taken place at some point in their seventh year, when Ginny was still returning Malfoy's letters unopened.

Harry suddenly realised he had been completely ignoring what Draco was saying – not an unusual occurrence, as Draco tended to go on and on about matters Harry considered rather inconsequential – manners, Ginny, family history, history in general, Ginny, potions, Ginny, the consequences of muggle nuclear war on the wizarding world, Ministry of Magic politics, Ginny.  It wasn't that Harry didn't relish a good, rousing, intellectual discussion as much as the next person (as long as there was nothing better to do), and it wasn't that he didn't LIKE Ginny, it was just that Draco took so long about everything.

Harry was waiting for the moment Draco would combine all his main topics of conversation in one sentence.  He would listen very carefully to a sentence like that.

" . . . So, anyway, he's puking his guts out in the next room, waiting for the potion to kick in – I made it myself, so it'll be quick – and you have to make sure he doesn't ruin the wedding by doing something stupid like setting Black on fire.  Although, on second thought, I don't think we arranged for any floor shows, so maybe you don't need to reign him in COMPLETELY."

Harry was rather confused by this fragment of what had clearly been a long rant about some unruly wedding guest, but he was willing to go along with it.

Anything to get out of this room.  The flash of green at Malfoy's wrist had made Harry realise Ginny had been dressed in Slytherin colours.  Maybe it was another omen, this time less ambiguous than good weather.

Ginny had been wearing Slytherin house colours.  For her WEDDING.

Harry was certain that was some sort of crime against nature, and he needed to escape from all the oppressive black, and silver, and green.

Maybe then everything would start to make sense again?

"So where is it I have to go, then?"

Draco fell silent – something that probably should have set Harry on alert, if he had been paying attention – and nodded toward the connecting door that led through into the twins' old room.

Harry heaved a sigh, and strode over.

He completely missed the smirk aimed at his back as he tentatively eased open the door, and slipped into the darkened room.

Blinking in the gloom, Harry waited for his eyes to adjust as he tried to locate where the sound of a man vomiting violently was coming from.  Making up his mind, he carefully picked his way across the room.

The man huddled in the corner, grasping on to an obviously transfigured basin – Harry knew from long experience that time in the bathroom at the Weasleys' was like gold dust, and generally required advance booking – so tightly that his knuckles were white, looked up.

"Potter.  I might have known they'd send you."

That sneer was unmistakeable.

Snape.

Could Harry's day actually GET any worse?  He almost wished Voldemort were still around.  A nice, rousing battle to the death would cheer him up nicely right now.

And if not, he might very well be better off dead.  At least then Snape wouldn't be staring up at him, disdain in his black eyes, holding out a stinking basin full of suspiciously green vomit for Harry to remove.

It was going to be a long day, and Harry was almost certain it would only get worse.


	2. Secrets

I want to thank those who reviewed – this is just going to be a short piece, detailing, as you may have guessed, the events of a single day.  Hopefully you'll continue to enjoy it (I can certainly only hope), and hopefully I'll be inspired to continue my other story.

Just to reiterate what I stated in the previous chapter: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the characters detailed therein, and beware, because this story does contain SLASH.

That aside, please read, and review to let me know what you think.

Those dark eyes were now directing a concerted glare in Harry's direction.  Harry would have quailed at the sight, were it not for the fact that after seven years of classes and three years of fighting side-by-side, there was very little Snape could do that would actually scare him anymore.

Snape apparently realised that fact, because he rolled his eyes, even darker than usual against the unusual pallor of his skin.

"It is none of your business why I am ill, Potter."

"I beg to differ, Professor Snape.  If I am the one having to babysit you –"

"Babysit!"

Snape's voice conveyed his absolute disgust at that assessment of the situation.  Harry ignored him, rolling along inorexably.

"- then I expect some co-operation.  For the work that I am clearly going to put into this day – a day, moreover, that should have been a pleasant, happy occasion – the least you can do is give the real reason you are so ill."

Snape opened his mouth, and then snapped it shut at Harry's next words.

"And I will not be fooled by weird and wonderful stories about hours of firewhisky with Hagrid and Dumbledore.  I know they are far more capable of holding their liquor than you," Snape glared "- and thus it might make a plausible story despite the fact that they will no doubt show up at the ceremony without the slightest sign of any ill-effects.  However, I happen to know for a fact exactly where they were until after midnight last night, because BOTH of them were over having dinner with me."

Snape visibly deflated.  He had apparently not considered the possibility that he might need a back-up reason to explain away his state.

There was silence.

It stretched uncomfortably.

Snape had not been a Death Eater and a double agent for so many years without learning the value of not breaking under silence.  Even so, sweat broke out on his forehead.

Harry stood there, waiting.  He knew Snape would not break easily, but he would break.

Harry would make certain of that.

And so he stood, the very picture of amused urbanity, and waited.

And waited.

Eventually Snape turned away from Harry, breaking up their staring contest.

"Itwasapotion."

Harry leaned forward.

"Sorry, what was that?  Could you speak up, please, sir?"

Snape flushed red, cursing himself for giving in to the brat.

"It was a potion, I said, Potter.  Are you going deaf?  It's a little early for the onset of old age, surely?"

Harry smiled.

"Oooh, good one.  You completely turned that back on me.  And if I were an easily flustered man," here Harry directed an amused glance at the embarrassed potions master, "it might just have worked.  Instead, I will simply ask the obvious question – what exactly WAS this potion?"

Snape was silent.  That question was not one he was prepared to answer.

Harry's smile turned predatory, and he leaned in for the kill.

_.~*~._.~*~._.~*~._

Ginny, alone in her childhood bedroom for the last time as an unmarried woman, flopped on the sagging bed, and curled her fingers into the worn yellow cotton spread, feeling slightly queasy and hugely apprehensive.

Jumping up immediately, she tried to peer over he shoulder at the back of her robes, checking for the most minute of wrinkles in the expensive green silk.  Breathing a sigh of relief to find the dress relatively unscathed, she essayed a small smoothing charm just to make certain.

Standing now, she began to pace, walking off her nervous energy as she spoke to herself.

"Get a grip on yourself, Ginny!  It's Draco!  You'll marry him, and live happily ever after – as long as you can get through this day."

She cocked her head to the side.

"But what if I DON'T make it through the day?  What if I trip and strangle myself on my wedding robes, or disgruntled escaped Death Eaters crash the ceremony and Avada Kedavra me?  Or Draco?"

Head straight once more, Ginny rolled her eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous!  Nothing will happen.  You're getting married, and you will live happily ever after."

Head back again, Ginny looked like an inquisitive sparrow as she ventured a further concern.

"Happily ever after?  How can I be certain of that?"

Head dead centre again, Ginny shook herself, staring in the slightly clouded mirror that had served her for eighteen years before she moved out of the Burrow.

"I'm cracked.  Talking to myself –" at that, Ginny clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes widening in comic horror.

She kept looking at herself, and her image calmed visibly.  She removed her hand, carefully, and smiled at herself.  Her smile was radiant, her eyes certain.

She had no reason to worry.

As she turned away from the mirror, it emitted a gusty sigh of relief.  Tension always made it feel like cracking – although generally not literally.

Of course, few people would voluntarily retain a demented mirror, so cracking mentally was probably a precursor to cracking literally.  The mirror, a rosy, apple-cheeked woman with a surprisingly nervous disposition, was very aware of her mortality.  It wouldn't do to offend or upset the viewers.

A timid knock sounded at the door, and a rather uncertain-looking Hermione Granger poked her head around the jamb.  She appeared somewhat puzzled to see a radiant Ginny, her smile wide, teeth white, and skin sparkling, standing in the middle of the room clothed in her wedding robes.

"I thought I heard voices."

Ginny flushed.

_.~*~._.~*~._.~*~._

Draco was calm.  He was cool.  He was collected.

He was absolutely certain about what he was about to do, and he couldn't be happier about it.

Draco could still picture the first time he ever remembered seeing Virginia Weasley, over a cauldron full of mostly second-hand books in Flourish and Blotts on Diagon Alley.  He had been twelve, she eleven, and they had been enemies at first sight, although certainly to a lesser degree than had been the case with the relationship between him and her brother, or him and Harry Potter.

But she had a huge crush on Harry, and the one thing that she had perhaps learned best from her family was the importance of loyalty, the need to protect your own.  And every offensive comment he made about Ron, about Hermione, every insult and indignity he had thrown at Harry, had only served to create a deeper chasm between Draco and the girl he had always known, somewhere deep in his psyche, that he wanted.

Loyalty was perhaps the most important lesson Molly Weasley had taught her children, and it was what Draco wanted his red-headed offspring to learn from the cradle.

Unlike him, they would know they were loved, know they were supported, unconditionally.

Draco did not consider himself a sentimental man, but he did have his standards.

He would not accept anything less than full commitment.  Not to his wife, not to his future children – and there would be many, if the legendary Weasley fertility matched with his Slytherin determination to achieve his ends had anything to do with the situation.

He already had a head start with the child even now resting in his fiancee's womb, undetected as of yet by anyone other than himself.  Even Ginny thought her slight indisposition was nerves, and hadn't considered the alternatives.  Draco, on the other hand, had been hoping for this child for years.

He had intended to use his first child to blackmail Ginny into marrying him.  She had been careful about birth control, but no potion was foolproof, and she was taking such a long time to decide to accept the proposal he had proffered and left hanging within the first month of their relationship, that Draco had been prepared to act in a way she would have considered dishonourable.

Draco did not like to wait, especially when it came to something this pivotal.  He had not been prepared to hang around waiting for Ginny to say yes, and if necessary would have utilised every trick at his disposal to ensure she made the right decision.  He was ruthless like that.

He was also overwhelmingly glad that he had not had to go to such lengths.  Ginny loved him, and she wanted to marry him, and they would be together forever. 

Draco had no time for doubt, or fear, and he would not falter.

He had everything he had ever wanted.

He had Ginny.


End file.
